Post @ 8/25:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Josie Adams Really Grinds My Gears

  I must first take a moment to excuse myself from the responsibility of writing a relevant or interesting article this week. I dislocated my smallest fingereth as the step-father of The Royal Mattias pulled me on a rubber tube through the Big Bay De Noc. After several frikin sweet flips through the air and huge gulps of fish-fart lake water, I fell from my inflated steed, but held on to the handle in a demonstration of my manly gumption. I was plowing through the water when the Captain suddenly gunned the engine. The drag, caused by the friction of the water on my body, was too much, even for my huge biceps. The tube ripped from my hands and nearly took with it my pinkie; Alas, the shift and colon/semicolon keys are a painful stretch away. Besides, school is starting and I'm sort of busy with the harrowing challenge of, dun dun dun, COMMUNITY COLLEGE! AHHHHHH!

What a beautiful segue into my article. You see, my preparation for school is like many others. I need, uh, books, classes, uhh..., pencils, yeah pencils, and uh, other things. This is where it gets tough, because I have to deal with the horror of a nasty little person who resembles a poo-colored Yoda. Her name in Josie Adams. "If help you need, a useless twat I will be," I once heard her say.

She is the liaison between my school and the Veteran's Administration. This relationship provides me with free school and books. Many people begin to loathe me at this point in the discussion, as paying for these items is not a pleasant undertaking. Why don't I just shut up and count my blessings? Remember...Josie Adams.

My research shows that Josie barely finished high school. She had eight kids by the time she was twelve. She somehow wrangled a job at my college (she had a kid with the dean) where she takes out her repressed anger on innocent Veterans who are simply looking for some help. Then, after selling her soul to Satan (who also fathered one of her children) she managed to work her wide ass into a position of power. Unfortunately, she has power over me.

To get books, I have to stand in line for about an hour to get these yellow vouchers (bear in mind that the Veteran's line is the same as the financial aid line, so it's always full of people with plenty of questions). So, after my wait, someone hands me some yellow paper. Then I must get the signature from the head of the department of the specific class, the class instructor, and finally, I must return to the line to wait for another hour to get the signature of...Josie Adams.

One time a wonderful opportunity presented itself! I saw that their was no line for the registrar, so I crept on tippy-toes over to the nice lady. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I was just wondering if you knew Josie Adams. I need her to sign this paper." "Yes," she replied, "in fact she's right over there." She gestured to the small hump of human matter only feet away. "Excuse me Josie, this young man wants you to sign these book vouchers." She looked at me with disdain, as I must have resembled one of her baby's fathers who owed her child support. She changed her focus to the registrar and spoke in horrible English without ever taking another glance in my direction. "Te' him he neez to git in that line an' wait. They have a rubba' stamp wif my name on it." She then disappeared into a cloud of smoke. I didn't even get to say, "F*ck you, you useless c*# t. You can just reach out with your sh*t covered paw and sign the frikinsweet paper from there." Instead, I crawled back to the line, which was now longer, and someone in front of me smelled like farts and cheap cologne.

That was last year. This year, they made it easier. Now, I don't have to get the signature of Josie Adams. I do, however, have to wait in her line for an hour and catch occasional glimpses of her. Every time, she has another baby clinging to her back. "That behavior is more befitting an opossum or raccoon, or some other animal that I shall not name for fear of being called a racist," I say under my breath. The other day, as I approached the line, I thought I smelled roasted pork. "Hooray!" I thought, "Satan has come to collect his dues from Josie Adams." But I was crushed to find her intact, standing behind the counter, in the process of making more bad decisions about Veterans. If you too hate Josie Adams, or think you might hate her, but don't personally know her, please feel free to sign the guest book with your comments. I hate myself for writing this article.

Douglas Dagner

Post @ 8/22:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        Russian Diplomacy...Rules!

I visited my family again this week. Yesterday was my birthday, I am now 23, and in accordance with such a thing I put myself in near proximity to them, allowing them to congratulate me on living successfully for that many years.

Accompanying my family, as usual, was my great-cousin Perry -a man of great wealth and influence in his youth, a MBA from Harvard I might add- and he had brought with him the choiciest Wall Street Journal articles with which he intended to lecture us all on. As it is, Perry, supposedly, reads the wsj from cover-to-cover everyday; he having hobbled into his 90's makes this feat rather remarkable.

At dinner, Perry began with his usual talk of drilling the oil shale out of Colorado and being rid of those ultraviolent Mohammeds (Arabs), as he calls them, and I was adroitly tuning him out to read an article that caught my eye. According to the wsj:

   [ Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a law making slander of a public official a criminal offense, a move opposition and watchdog groups described as yet another blow in the Kremlin’s unrelenting assault on beleaguered democratic institutions.

His approval of the measure on friday is a fresh rebuke to Western leaders and civic groups who leaned on Mr. Putin at a group of eight conference in St. Petersburg this month to stop squeezing opposition parties and freedom of speech. Analysts say Mr. Putin’s decision to sign the law is a harbinger for an even greater clampdown on Russian society as the government prepares for presidential elections in 2008.

“He is signing a law that erases all ability to criticize the authorities and to have any real discussion in the media,” said Lilia Shevtsova, a political analyst at the Carnegie Foundation in Moscow. “The long-term trend is pretty clear: Russia is in the midst of an election campaign and the czar doesn’t want any questions.” ]

This is the type of political development that bends the brow and curdles the compassionate nature. Or just makes you remember the Stalinist days of Russia -when freedom was a bullet to the head. So, at first thought, it would make a frikin'sweet article, not so much in anyone's interest, as I severely doubt any readers care for Russia, but that it would coddle me along, prodding my fingers. A gamble handsomely appreciated.

At home, continuing my research, I only found RussiaBlog, and haven't stopped reading it because the author frikin' rules. Hard.

RussiaBlog points out that the wsj article is/was wrong. Incorrect. Not true. Basically, everything the wsj explains as a constraint on freedom, thus stiffling opposition to Putin, is in fact nothing of the sort. Please do not expect further elaboration by me. Take the time and read the article. And I, althought the wsj is wrong and may be a culprit in a larger conservative scheme to misdirect attention from Bush's blunders, have nothing more to say on it.

Post @ 8/13:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Pu-raise Gawd fo' Vittry!

  I could hardly contain myself when I heard the overwhelming news last week: "Say fellas, did ya hear? General Motors is opening a new plant in Lansing, and get this, it's environmentally friendly!" I soiled myself with a quickness.

GM is opening a new plant in Lansing's Delta township (queue inspirational music), a seedy area where weeds grow through ANY cracks in the pavement and young hoodlums can be seen dribbling basketballs down the streets at all hours. Old Monte Carlos cruise the streets on stolen rims, blaring poorly produced hip-hop demo tapes, and terrible smells drift down the sidewalks on hot days. BUT WAIT! I'm trying to refrain from being so hatefully sarcastic. My recent trip to the doctor showed that I was in the early stages of hypertension. The rest of this article will only report on the upside of this most unbearable event.

The only upside being that 3,000 people will be employed for a very short time before they are again sent packing due to huge profit losses. "Damn, I shoulda finished highschool."

"But wait, what of this environmental miracle?" Well, the new plant boasts a Gold Certification, a useless and meaningless designation from the U.S. Green Council, a group of very dry hippies from Washingtn D.C. "How did they manage to achieve this prestigious award?" I shall telleth thee! Rain water that collects on the roof is used for all flushing toilets, and the urinals use no water at all. Imagine the smell when the workers line up after a hard night of drinkin' and fightin'. Smells like the underside of an old man's scrotum. WOW!

There's more!. Materials from former plants were reused(none were laid-off workers) and the new robotic machinery can operate in the dark. That way, it will be easier for them to stage a week long overthrow of the human management of GM and actually start to turn a profit (this is only a fantasy). There is also a thermal barrier that keeps the plant freezing on hot days and sweltering on cold days. And the roof is painted a reflective white and is dotted with translucent panels to allow the natural light to reach the workers. Unfortunately, the sun never shines on GM plants anymore. ZING!

Still more (this is beginning to depress me, too)! Apparently, less than half of the 1,000 acre site was developed, leaving the surrounding environs unscathed. Thank the lord! They left the crack huts, corpse piles, and cockroach colonies to bask in the sun as they did before man came to destroyeth them. I think I might have a seizure!

I can understand the fact that local Americans might want to abstain from reality when this sort of news is announced. GM has sucked balls for too long. Now they are simply trying to add some bells to their disfunctonal whistles. But, as my instructor in the military once said, "You can only shine a turd so much, and people will always discover that it's still a turd when they try to eat it." Hmm...?

Furthermore, GM will only produce midsize crossover vehicles, such as the Saturn Outlook, Buick Enclave and GMC Acadia at this new plant. You can recognize these vehicles easily. They resemble what horror would ensue if a mini-van were to sodomize an SUV, but get too excited and fall in half way. That is about the best I can do. You can make your own crossover by following these two steps: 1. Park an SUV with the front up against the new GM plant, 2. After reaching full speed, ram a mini-van squarely into the back of the aforementioned SUV. I apologize for this terrible attempt at humor.

I can say no more about this new chapter in the book this American auto giant, except, "nice try fellas." Maybe next time the upper echelon at GM will spend less money on rain water toilets and more money on researching how to build a car that people will buy.

-Dr. Drexler and Mr. Clyde

Post @ 8/11:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        A bit Absurd

  That's my life. A bit absurd it is, and has been for many weeks. I've been reading Paradise Lost, a epic poem as of yet not finished by me; and before that I was reading The Merchance of Venice, a play yet to be finished by me also. I am at 3.4.

But what does this have to do with my life being absurd? Little. A trite detail, but a thing, a very thing that has been bothering me. You see, I like to read...when I read something I also enjoy finishing it. Why? A good question, and as my roommate once said "A good answer was often preceded by a better question." Thus making my good question very good. So what does all this foolish posturing have to do with anything?

I don't know.

There is a rather crude tumor of subjects I would like to mention and hope that the very mentioning would bring about some cathartic moment, however fleeting, and yet this cannot happen. As you must all not know exactly what "it" is.

But, I guess there are a few things I can discuss...or more rightly pose rhetorical questions on and then make a comment on. Here goes...

Why do people like Dan Brown and the DaVinci Code so much?

This summer I read that novel. It is actually one of like two or three novels this season that has actually been read to end by me. Therefore I am a hypocrit under certain lamps, but not mine as I eschew such self-labeling...yes I do. Anyways, how is this book so popular? it was this question that brought about its reading by me in the first place and while reading I was caught by its simplicity. Utter simplitude...and this is why it's so popular.

Another question was, why do people enjoy nightclubs so much?

Like really? I've been to clubs before. There was a time between 18 and 21 when I went to them more than a few handfuls per year. And, of those, a few times I really had a good, quality time (i.e. I dry-humped some chick for a while and was drunk -a good thing). But my thing is more of why do some people make a weekly affair of it for nearly a decade or more?

So I thought about this quite a bit. I started by remembering all the persons I'd met who frequented nightclubs or "house" parties and what they were like. There is basically one key detail to all of them: they're usually the type of person, who if you can stand a metaphor, would blow away in a heavy wind. They're rather boring after twenty minutes, have eyes that betray only emptiness and they smell of poverty. Not money though...

These people scare me. Not for what they might do, but for what they are guaranteed to do...wait for it...nothing.

Now a few of you may know that I recently travelled to Traverse City for their cherry festival, and you may be thinking "WTF Mattias, your such a whiny b*tch!"

Yes. True. But maybe I just realized that there is much more to life then seeking momentary and mostly physical stimulation, when excercising the mental faculties, something I've done for a long time, is still more satisfying. Or you could also say that fifteen minutes of goodness (depending on your preference) or three hours at a club hardly compares to teaching kids integrals for three hours a day and getting paid 100 grand. Or less depending on school.

Yea well anyways...here's another worthless article about not much, but this was the first time I was able to escape Griselda's (<---Not her real name) clutches for an hour or so...enjoy!

Post @ 7/28:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Lamentations and Delusions of Grandeur

  Today, before I set out on may way to another four hour installment of community college level psychology, I was startled to see a large pimple on my forehead, camped above my right eyebrow in a rather large and red tee pee. It was so large that it pulled all superfluous forehead skin into its lair. "That would explain my nightmare about demons ripping my skin off," I thought to mine self. However, I am no zit popper, and for two good reasons: 1. It hurts and is unhealthy. 2. I like to think that I am secure enough with my self to not worry about a common skin blemish, resulting from a bacteria-clogged pore, and what attractive females in class will think should they see it (attractive males too, I think...Oh! I'm so awkward!) They usually say to each other, "Oh my god, look at that giant zit! I'm gonna puke!" Maybe it bothers me a little, but in reference to attractive females I always say that it is better to have a pimple on the face than to have warts on the genitals.

However, this was a big guy and my forehead is pretty big too, so it was like the mighty Kilimanjaro in the midst of the Serengeti. What was I to do? I went to class, and by this time I was a little nervous. A small, white cap had formed on the tip, still concurrent with the Kilimanjaro simile, but I was soothed as I knew that the evil bacteria had lost to my mighty white blood cells. But now the corpses had to be disposed of. I was afraid that someone would shriek, "Oh my god, he has three eyes!" My heart began to thump.

I'm usually early to class, so I walked at a skew so the other early nerds couldn't see it (You may wonder, "don't geeks have all sorts of acne anyway?" First of all, this is a stereotype, you ass, and second, the sight of my zit would give them common ground with me, and they might feel obligated to approach me and ask to play WoW). I slid to the back and bowed my head, pretending to read as the others began to file in.

Class started as the prof said, "Let's begin class today." This lady was a jewel. She was the kind of lady who you could say "Fuck you, you nasty, dried up old bag" to and she would say, "You are entitled to feel that way" and she would genuinely feel sorry for you. A liberal from the 60's and a psychoanalyst for more than a quarter century, she was sure to accept my plight and even soothe me after class (wink), for she would know my fears. But in my vulnerable state, my mind began to wander and I found myself in the throes of a terrible day dream...

...I looked up to her and our eyes met, all five of them. She shuddered. "Greg, would you please go attend to that pejorative acne pustule? I feel that it is a disruptive force in class..."

...She said it as though my pimple had a gravitational field and was pulling the moon towards campus, resulting in a massive collision and ensuing dust cloud that would blanket the earth and block the sun. I looked up and all were staring at me. Any eye contact was disrupted as they took furtive glances upward to my mutation, but quickly returned with a shrug as if to say, "What, I wasn't staring at that pile of horror on your head..."

She continued "I don't want to be rude, but you are a disgusting piece of human. Why didn't you just spare us the grief and pop that zit before class. Better yet, why don't you just kill yourself . They can cover that thing up for the funeral."

I began to sob. Her face turned red and she started to heave. She moved so quickly that I barely had time to lose bowel function and fall to the floor. She was beating me with her fists as she called for help in holding me down. The entire class jumped in and pinned me to the floor. She pulled out a rusty hunting knife that was covered in bug guts and inched towards my forehead...

...Thankfully, this was only a day dream. In reality, if my teacher were to attack me with a rusty hunting knife, I would be forced to initiate #7 of the "C.I.A.'s Top Ten Methods to Defend Yourself From a Filthy Blade Attack AND Inflict Mortal Wounds on Your Attacker, "#7 being the high block elbow grab to arm bar disarm to the gnarly sub-clavian stab at a 45 degree angle approx. one inch above the clavicle. I digress.

Moral of the story: Pim'peep'les rule!

Post @ 8/6:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        My last attempt at a career in journalism

  My major is English. And considering this I've made several attempts in my college career to become a mainstay at some journalistic enterprise. The following is a failure:

   I want to tell you a story. It concerns Boethius, a radio station and a toilet. This all seems odd, but it is entirely fitting, allow me to continue.

I was seated on this toilet “punishing the porcelain” as some would say, especially me its minter, carefully reading through Boethius’s work when suddenly the toilet throbbed and shook violently; the walls reverberated menacingly. I pushed out my hands for support and shouted “Oh my God…the ‘Cracken!!!”

But then I noticed a pattern in this chaos of noise. This putrid sound that fouled the air was, by some, called music. It was in fact heavy metal. My father once said “Matt, heavy metal is a shortcut to Hell,” but he’s religious.

Once I understood the noises true cause, I attempted to read again; except you can’t with such a stench of noise ricocheting about. Allow me to explain, Boethius wrote the Consolation of Philosophy while imprisoned for treason, an unfounded charge, and was to be put to death by strangulation or sword. The book itself is not considered brilliant in its original manufacture of philosophical ideas (since most ideas can be attributed to others), but as a supreme example of human dignity. A man falsely indicted and awaiting a brutal death, summons the courage to die honorable with a steady mind and soul. It’s historical poetry, if you will. And a thing of this beauty cannot be read while a whorish abomination of music is projected via amplifiers at volume levels far in excess of decorum.

“[ASNMU] has had to talk to them about their decibel levels,” Erik Maillard, our student council president, said.

It’s not so much the taste in music that bothered me; more the selfish idea that it had to be shared with everyone in a one mile radius. Here’s a clue: not everyone likes heavy metal. Yet many folks, with blighted worldviews, seem to pander its discordant motifs like some fake Oakley vendor in New York.

“You know, the thing is, they acted all annoyed when I went in and asked them to turn it down,” Maillard said.

In truth, the aforementioned incident was merely the straw that disabled the camel. The times I have tuned my radio their way, I’ve only found: crappy rap-impersonators, stale dialogue, dance music (hello, this is radio not the Matrix), and an occasional song that’s just bearable.

My friends say I am a prick though, but I am not the only one:

While gathering facts and other basic minutia for this article, I spoke with a few ASNMU representatives, the president, as you know from above shared a few thoughts, but another who wishes to remain anonymous gave me, in words that have become a cliché but nonetheless fitting, ‘delicious morsels.’

For one thing Radio X fumbles on their budget so bad there is a 17k carryover from years previous. Now this money is set aside solely for Radio X from student money and is spent…absolutely no where. It collects dust while other student programs go without.

That’s the biggest bungle on their part, but there is more: they have redundant managerial positions (i.e. two people for one job), 5-paid summer positions for those massive summer crowds (DJ’s are unpaid so these are, I guess *cough* cough* eh hem, staff jobs), do not play college style music like Modest Mouse, Wilco or others, unless you count Jamaraqua which they play too much, and have not, as far as I can tell, made an effort to categorize their product into daily time slots so the eclectic tastes of Northern’s students can be better serviced (i.e. they don’t care what anyone likes).

And to illustrate my point on marketing, I’ll ask a question: when or what was the last Radio X promotion you’ve heard of?

I accept your silence as an answer befitting my purpose.

“Because of my position I can’t really say much,” Katie F. Newton ASNMU secretary said. “But if there was a way to like sponsor your article then I, or we, definitely would do that.”

Now I am sure there are many acceptable arguments “staffers” at Radio X could make in their defense. But it’s too late. The very virtue of this article and the near violent lauds of support I got from fellow students once they learned I was writing this article clearly indicate an inadequacy.

You can argue all you want; you are still wrong and terrible. And we all don’t like you.

So I ask: Please Radio X stop sucking.

This was an article I submitted to the newest college newspaper to come to my campus. They never replied and the student council president was upset by his usage in it...that is all. Touch me!